


The Spy Who Loved Me

by usuallysunny



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, MI6 Agents, Monte Carlo, Spies & Secret Agents, Undercover Missions, the James Bond AU no-one asked for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:40:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25783009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/usuallysunny/pseuds/usuallysunny
Summary: He’s the sharp shooter determined to make a name for himself. She’s the boss’ daughter, determined to step away from hers. She thinks he’s arrogant; he thinks she’s a brat.But when Ned Stark assigns them the most important mission of their careers, they’ll have to learn how to work together.If they don’t kill each other first.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 44
Kudos: 322





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is tropey af and I have no shame. Disclaimer: I know absolutely nothing about spies or agent or MI6! This is inspired a little by Casino Royale, a lot by James Bond in general. I don't write in Jon's POV much so hope it's okay! The second part is nearly finished (and is VERY smutty🤭 ) I'll be posting that tomorrow. As always, stay safe my loves <3

* * *

Jon Snow couldn’t bloody stand Sansa Stark.

She was everything he hated in a woman: spoilt, bitchy, stuck up.

He liked his women laid back and relaxed, the adventurous type who loved sports and the outdoors and being on top. They didn’t care about hair or makeup or who was on the front of this month’s _Vogue._ They didn’t care when he was called away in the middle of the night, slipping out of bed and into expensive black trousers, a Walther PPK tucked into the waistband. They didn’t ask questions or check his phone.

 _I bet Sansa always checks that prick Joffrey’s phone,_ he thought with an amused smirk.

Sansa always had perfect hair and glossy lips and a fresh manicure. He didn’t know how she fired her gun with nails like that. If she didn’t irritate him so much, he would admit he was a little impressed. Her dresses were made by designers he didn’t give a shit about and her heels were far too high to be practical in their line of work. She always had an icy expression on her face, something impervious and untouchable, and she went to fancy restaurants and clubs and she wouldn’t be caught dead with a beer in her hand, like the women he dated.

If you asked him, Sansa Stark needed to get a life.

She needed to get a hobby (other than pissing him off) and she needed a stiff drink or maybe just a good, hard fuck. Something to loosen her up, because she was driving him _insane_.

They were in one of the most beautiful places in the world, certainly the most beautiful place he’d ever been, and _still_ , she wasn’t satisfied.

He could feel the rumble of the Aston’s engine underneath him, the sleek black car slipping through Monte Carlo’s backstreets. Green tipped mountains and the glittering blue sea passed by the window as he drove, the afternoon sun glinting off the steering wheel.

His mood was soured by her heavy sighs next to him.

“What’s _wrong_ with you?” he asked eventually.

She huffed, folding her arms over her chest and turning to look out of the passenger window.

“We shouldn’t be using MI6 money on a fucking Aston,” she sniffed in that clipped, bitchy tone.

“ _Agent Stark,”_ he quipped, his mouth quirking, “you kiss your mother with that mouth?”

He kept his gaze on the road but he could practically _feel_ her roll her eyes.

“You’re not funny,” she grumbled.

He smirked, one hand leaving the wheel as he dug into his pocket for his smokes. He pulled one out and placed it between his teeth. He held the packet out to her as he rummaged for his lighter—because they weren’t exactly best friends but he was nothing if not polite. 

As expected, she rolled those piercing blue eyes again and shook her head.

“Suit yourself,” he shrugged, the words muffled by the cigarette, and he lit the end. He rolled down the window and blew smoke out of the corner of his mouth.

She was still staring furiously out her own window.

They drove in silence for a few minutes before he felt the need to defend the car.

“What have you got against the Aston?”

“Nothing,” she exhaled, short and exasperated, “but you should have rented something else. Something _discreet_. Something _cheaper._ ”

“Cheaper…” he repeated, amused, “ _you’re_ lecturing me about saving money? _You_?”

Sansa Stark, who wore Jimmy Choos and Tiffany earrings and always smelled like expensive flowers. Who had her daddy, his _boss,_ wrapped around her little finger. She knew as well as he did that Ned Stark wouldn’t give a fuck about his agents renting an Aston Martin, especially not his precious little girl, so she _must_ be fucking with him.

“You gonna tell daddy on me?”

He glanced over to her and felt a cheap thrill at the way her eye twitched.

“Let’s just get this over with,” she muttered, leaning her head against the window, “the less time I have to spend with you the better.”

“Oh no,” he said blankly, the words slotting around the cigarette as he held it between his teeth, “don’t say that.”

One hand stayed on the wheel as he kicked the car up a gear. The engine roared as he abruptly turned the corner and Sansa huffed at his recklessness. 

“I swear, you male agents… “ she picked at her manicure, her tone dry and bored, “…you all think you’re Bond,”

He scoffed, feigning indifference, but deep down, he _definitely_ wanted to be like Bond. He had the job and the looks and he’d always been good with women, but the Aston was a dream he hadn’t fulfilled yet.

He _wasn’t_ letting her ruin it.

They drove in silence until they reached the hotel opposite the famed Monte Carlo Casino.

She hid her snicker behind her hand when he mournfully handed the keys over to the concierge.  
  


* * *

  
The target’s name was Petyr Baelish.

Jon had seen some bad men in his time, had helped lock them up or even cashed in his license to kill, but this guy was another level.

He acted as a personal banker for some of the most dangerous terrorists in the world. Intelligence had been watching him for years but he was as slippery as an eel, impossible to pin down. Every time they caught him and the case went to trial, it was always thrown out. Evidence was suddenly found inconclusive and eye witnesses conveniently disappeared. Money and contacts and surveillance footage vanished into thin air.

Petyr Baelish knew how to play the game.

They said he had been involved in the funding of countless terror attacks, as well as profiting from them. More than that, they said he had fingers in other pies, ones involving human trafficking and sex crimes where the victims were girls as young as ten. When Ned Stark had told him and Sansa that, brought them into his office to assign them the case, Jon saw the way her eyes flashed with barely restrained anger.

This guy was a scumbag who needed to be put down, and he and Sansa didn’t agree on much, but they agreed on that. 

_“Together?” Sansa had grimaced, “you want us to work on this together?”_

_Ned’s expression turned stern and severe._

_“Will that be a problem?”_

_“Not at all, boss,” Jon had drawled, jumping in with a voice lined with fake enthusiasm, “we’ll get the bastard.”_

_“No, Daddy—” she paused and corrected herself at her father’s stony glare, “—Sir. I look forward to working with Agent Snow.”_

She’d said it through gritted teeth and she was a good liar, he’d give her that.

It was a skill that would come in handy for the mission.

“I still don’t understand why we couldn’t have been friends—” she was calling through the door that joined their rooms as they unpacked their suitcases, “—or brother and sister.”

He finished pulling his tux out of the suitcase, hanging it on the bathroom door.

“Because friends and brothers and sisters don’t go on romantic trips to Monte Carlo,” he said dryly, smoothing out some imaginary kinks in the suit.

He couldn’t see what she had packed, nor did he particularly care, and suddenly she was standing by the adjoining doorway, leaning against the frame.

“It’s going to be easier to convince Baelish you’re my wife,” he clarified, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Is it?” she asked wryly, arching a brow, “there’s certainly no love lost between us, and we both know you’re a shit actor.”

He quirked a brow to match.

“Don’t worry about me,” he said indifferently, “you have your own part to play.”

The reminder made her mouth pinch, an expression of distaste flashing over her face.

“I _hate_ playing the damsel in distress,” she complained, “a passive, silent doll to hang off a man’s arm. It’s _humiliating_.”

He tipped his head to the side, clasping his hands behind his back as he let his eyes drift over her.

He hated to admit it—but he understood.

Despite the weird distance between them, he had a lot of respect for her. Sure, he thought she was spoilt and annoying and she could be a brat, but she could also be strong and brave. He’d seen it. He’d seen it in the way she stuck up for Agent Greyjoy when they all took the piss. He’d seen it in the sharp, witty replies she threw at senior bosses like Robert Baratheon when they spoke to her like she was a piece of meat. He’d seen it in the smoking bullet holes she could leave in a practice target’s head, her shots as accurate as his.

And, if his arm was twisted and that gun was put to his head, he would admit he saw her beauty too.

She had a slim figure and shapely curves and ridiculously long legs. She fit the physical description of a femme fatale very well, something mysterious and alluring and deadly about her. Maybe it was her cool indifference, how very untouchable she was. She had striking blue eyes, a colour he’d never seen on anyone else, and most frustrating of all... she had thick auburn hair that curled to her waist.

Jon had always had a weakness for redheads.

Despite everything, he wasn’t blind. He was a young, fit, red-blooded male… and Agent Stark was undeniably gorgeous.

Before he knew it, and to his own surprise, he was comforting her.

“That’s all it is though—playing,” he shrugged, “it’s just a role, as much as mine. Parts that fit into Baelish’s little world. A new business associate and his pretty little wife.”

The corner of her mouth quirked, something dancing behind her eyes. 

“You think I’m pretty, huh?”

He stared at her for a beat before a scoff rolled from his chest.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Stark,” he insisted, his own mouth twitching under his beard, “you’re not my type.”

An incredulous exhale bubbled from her lips as she pushed off the doorframe.

“Please,” she started and her voice carried as she sauntered back into her room, “I’m everyone’s type.”

Jon stared after her—at her expensive heels and her perfect ass and her red, red hair—and told himself that heat in the pit of his stomach was just irritation.  
  


* * *

  
Jon had a reputation for being calm under pressure.

It was what made him a good spy, the _best._ Agent Stark ( _Robb_ Stark, because Sansa wouldn’t be caught dead giving him a compliment) had said he was like steel once, cool and unbreakable, and it had stuck.

And _yet_ —

Sitting here in the casino bar, making idle small talk with Petyr Baelish and waiting for his “wife” to arrive, Jon found himself nervous. He had introduced himself as James Stone, a powerful British businessman looking for a private accountant—amongst other things. The meeting had been arranged by a man called Varys, someone Baelish thought was in his pocket but was actually one of the MI6’s most powerful spies.

Sansa had used the moniker Alayne Stone on a previous mission, already had the fake passport and ID, and he’d chosen his name to piss her off, a play on her James Bond quips.

Speaking of Sansa, he was still waiting.

He subtly pressed the little communication device in his ear. He waited for Baelish to turn to the bartender to order another drink before he hissed—

“ _Where the fuck are you?”_

There was the quiet crackle of static as Sansa must have switched her device on.

“Patience, my love,” her voice was a velvet purr in his ear as she effortlessly slipped into character, “you cannot rush perfection.”

 _Vain bitch,_ he thought, rolling his eyes, and he turned his attention back to Baelish.

“Varys tells me you’re in the oil trade,” the man was saying, his voice heavily accented and sickly sweet, “I have a great many contacts in the Middle East—I do believe we’ll do great business together.”

Jon gave a smooth smile as he took the whiskey glass from Baelish’s hands.

“Yes, I do deal in oil, amongst other things…” he let the words hang significantly in the air until the other man’s eyes flashed in understanding, “…I would be eager to enter into _all manner_ of business.”

There was a reason Ned didn’t want them to just storm in and assassinate him. Baelish didn’t work in a vacuum; he wasn’t alone. He had associates and creditors and employers, a corruption-filled chain of command that needed to be destroyed from within. Ripped out, root and stem. While Jon focused on him, Sansa would focus on the associates he had with him, namely a Roose Bolton and his son, Ramsay.

The father and son, a vicious pair of cunts by all accounts, were also standing by the bar. 

Baelish’s expression was impressively composed. His smile was a little tight and practiced, but he kept himself eerily collected. He was just about to open his mouth to reply when his eyes seemed to focus on a spot above Jon’s shoulder.

Roose and Ramsay Bolton seemed to be staring at the same thing and the son let out a twisted whistle, all low and wicked.

“Fuck me,” he breathed, shaking his head slightly with an incredulous laugh, “somewhere, somehow, there’s a lucky bastard who gets to take that home.”

Jon arched a brow, twisting on the bar stool to see what they were talking about.

His mouth suddenly felt very dry.

Sansa was at the top of the stairs, her elegant fingers sliding down the bannister as she made her way towards them. Briefly, he wished he had paid attention when she was unpacking her suitcase, just so he could have prepared himself for _that dress._

The front dipped down sinfully, exposing the creamy curve of her cleavage, and the bottom swept the floor. It clung to her body like poured scarlet silk, and when she moved, the lights from the expensive chandeliers glinted off the diamonds around her neck.

Her hair was perfectly curled, falling in thick copper waves down her shoulders, and there was a sway to her hips and her lips were painted as red as the dress and _fuck,_ she was beautiful.

Jon picked his glass up and took a gulp of whiskey, grateful for the burn as it scorched its way down his throat.

As she walked towards them, seemingly uncaring of the dozens of eyes on her, he forced himself to snap into action.

He smiled casually at Ramsay Bolton, tipping his glass, “I suppose I’m the lucky bastard.”

The man’s dumbfounded expression was matched by Roose and Baelish as Sansa finally reached them.

“Hi, baby,” she crooned, before she leaned into him and placed a kiss on his cheek.

Time seemed to pause for one solitary moment as her breath washed over him, warm and sweet. Her lips were soft against the grit of his beard, her hand coming to rest on his thigh. When she pulled back, he could still smell her, all peaches and Chanel, and his arm wrapped instinctively around her waist. 

“Mr Baelish, may I present my wife, Alayne Stone?”

Sansa’s smile was bright as she held out her hand and she put the Bond girls of his teenage fantasies to shame. Baelish took her hand and placed a kiss on the back of it.

Jon’s arm was still around her waist, her hand resting on his shoulder as she stood and he sat on the barstool. As she introduced herself to the Boltons, her own unsuspecting targets, he registered how this didn’t feel as weird as it should have.

She was warm and he could feel her hip against him and even though it was fake, it was still everything he thought he’d never have. Born to a single mother who worked two jobs to make ends meet, he’d worked his way up from nothing. He was a bastard without a father or a name—and it does bastards no good to dream of pretty girls who’ll never be theirs.

Not that he’d dreamt of Sansa, of course.

“Well,” Baelish clapped his hands together, “shall we get on with the game?”

He had organised a high stakes tournament of Texas Hold ‘Em and it wasn’t really Jon's game, but he hoped his training would hold up. Intel said Baelish had lost a lot of his clients’ money, that he needed to win it back, and Ned was trusting Jon to make sure he didn’t. He hoped it would force him to turn to MI6 for asylum, in exchange for information on his creditors and employers.

Sansa was leaning into him again, tipping his face up with a delicate finger.

“Good luck, darling,” she was murmuring—and then she pinched his chin and dragged his face to hers.

She kissed him.

It was only a peck, barely a kiss at all, but her lips were soft and warm. When she pulled away, he was overwhelmed by this strange desire to pull her right back.

He shook it off and told himself to get a grip.

He had a game to win, a bad guy to take down, and yet all he could think about was the taste of her mouth.  
  


* * *

_  
“I’ve got the key. They’re heading to the bar,”_ Sansa’s voice rang out in his ear as Jon scooped the money up from the table and Baelish stormed off, “ _we should go now”._

He nodded, his eyes flickering to the other side of the room. She was turning her attention back to Ramsay, who had long since left the game, and he was standing too close to her.

Jon didn’t know why he cared. He just knew he _did._

He was impressed by her strength, how she wore a cool smile like a weapon. They had spent the evening as partners, he didn’t have to worry about her when he was at the roulette table and she was at the bar, manipulating two killers like it was child’s play.

He wasn’t too proud to admit he’d underestimated her.

Baelish was already knocking back a shot of clear liquor and Jon could see his hands shaking. That was good. He was scared. He was also preoccupied, with Ramsay and Roose drowning their sorrows with him, giving them the opportunity to slip out and search his hotel room.

“What did you find out?” he asked under his breath as he placed a hand on the small of her back.

He guided her out of the casino and into the cool night air. The hotel was the same one they were staying in and right next to the casino. She pinched the material of her dress at the thighs, holding it up as they walked up the steps.

“It seems as though Roose is the real power in the operation,” she murmured and rifled through her clutch bag to get the key she’d slipped from Baelish’s pocket, “Ramsay’s the muscle. He promised us contacts, wealth and power. He also promised to fuck me better than my husband ever could.”

She said it with a casual arch of her brow and a little smirk and his jaw was clenching without his permission.

“Bastard,” he muttered as they made their way up the stairs and found Baelish’s room.

“ _That’s_ what’s pissed you off the most?” she asked with a slight shake of her head and an eye roll, “ _men._ ”

He ignored her jibe and reached for the key instead. She scoffed and batted his hand away. His dark eyes drifted over her again, taking her in, and up close, her dress was even more skin tight.

He leaned against the wall next to the door, folding his arms over his chest.

“Where do you keep your gun?” he asked quietly, his voice lined with amusement as his eyes flickered over her.

She glanced up at him under heavy lashes and her cheeks flushed a little and she’d never looked at him like that before.

“Your _underwear_?” he added and he wasn’t really serious but she replied—

“I’m not wearing underwear.”

She had a wicked grin and she’d never _said_ anything like that before either.

He nearly _groaned._

Was she flirting with him?

He couldn’t linger on it because just as Sansa was slipping the key into the door, he heard movement from behind them.

Two of Baelish’s thugs were turning the corner, half cloaked in darkness but undoubtedly making their way towards them. Sansa froze, her eyes flashing, and he knew she saw them too. He clenched his jaw and knew he had to make a decision. Her brows pulled into a frown as she tried to read him and she opened her mouth to speak, but then he was grabbing her arm and tugging her away from the door.

He spun them until they were slightly out of sight and pushed her against the wall, enough to make out their shadowy figures but not enough to recognise them. He angled his body, shielding her, but knew they still looked suspicious, lingering around idly. He had to come up with something, had to _do_ something. Footsteps echoed in his ear, the sound fighting for dominance over the pounding of his pulse.

“Fuck,” he cursed eventually, half at the proximity of the men and half at what he already knew he was going to do.

Sansa went to question him but his mouth covered her reply.

He kissed her.

He kissed her hard and passionate and deep.

His mouth slanted over hers, stealing her breath and the gasp she probably didn’t mean to make. If he was honest with himself, in his darkest moments, he had thought about this. Sometimes, when his anger flared and his fingers had itched, he had thought about kissing her to shut her up. She drove him mad and sometimes he thought if he didn’t kiss her, he’d bloody kill her.

But he’d never imagined it like this.

Lust sparked at his heels, his blood turned to gasoline, and she pushed right back. She gave as good as she got. Her hands gripped the lapels of his expensive jacket and she tugged him closer, as if to swallow him whole. When he felt her tongue swipe across his bottom lip, he opened his mouth for her. It swept inside, tangling with his, fighting for dominance. Even in _this_ , they couldn’t relent, couldn’t give in.

Her knees buckled, a tiny whimper escaping her throat, as his hands cradled her face. Through the haze, he registered Baelish’s men laughing, their voices carrying as they let themselves into Baelish’s room.

“At least someone’s getting laid tonight,” one of them guffawed, clearly thinking they were wrapped in a lover’s embrace, too eager to wait until they reached their room, and then the door clicked shut.

The moment they were gone, Jon broke away from her mouth.

He stared at her, pupils blown to black, and her chest was rising and falling faster than usual.

He felt tight everywhere—his throat, his chest, his _cock…_

How many years had it been since he got hard from a kiss? He couldn’t remember, but he knew it wasn’t _normal—_ and his blood raged in his veins.

The atmosphere blistered between them, heady and intense.

“Thinking on your feet… good work, Agent Snow,” she whispered eventually, clearing her throat, and it was the first compliment she’d ever given him.  
  


* * *

  
“How’s Baratheon?” Jon asked the next morning over breakfast, adjusting his black aviators against the morning sun.

They were sitting in the outdoor section of the hotel’s restaurant, the fancy pool glimmering beside them and an array of croissants and fruit on the table. She was wearing a yellow sundress and an icy expression, looking glamorous and cool and untouchable.

But he _had_ touched her, his treacherous mind kept reminding him.

Something dangerous and new simmered under the surface between them. 

She huffed, her finger running around the rim of her coffee cup.

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

His mouth twitched under his beard. He felt uneasy, untethered since last night, and _that_ was more like it. He could still feel her warmth and see her smile and taste her mouth and this frostiness… _this_ he could handle.

“Come on,” he teased, pouring some black coffee into his own cup, “I need a good laugh.”

“You’re an arsehole, you know that?” she said bluntly.

He merely smirked in reply and she rolled her eyes.

“We broke up,” she muttered before she added with a sniff, “if you _must_ know.”

“Sorry,” he said, even though he wasn’t.

Joffrey Baratheon worked on the floor below them in an admin position his dad got him. He was too much of a coward to be a spy but he had money and a good name and because of that, everything was handed to him on a silver platter.

Something ugly twisted inside Jon at the fact that Sansa was with him because of it.

He thought she should have more integrity, that she shouldn’t be so shallow, but then he thought maybe that was harsh—because he didn’t really know her at all. He didn’t know her favourite colour or her favourite film or the things that moved her. He knew she was good at her job and she loved her brother and her dad—and that was about it.

And besides, apparently she wasn’t with Baratheon anymore.

Jon tried not to dwell on why it mattered.

“Tell me something,” he said abruptly, “about you.”

She narrowed her eyes suspiciously, her auburn waves pushed back by the sunglasses on her head.

“Why?”

He stared at her for a beat before he laughed.

“Why not?”

She frowned, like she was trying to understand.

“Because you don’t like me.”

He felt the words in his chest, like a dull ache. He supposed he didn’t, it was what he always told himself, but now he’d spent time with her, as a partner, he was more concerned with how _she_ felt. He wondered if she was safe and if she was happy and if she still hated him.

She’d only said that once, spat in the heat of early argument between them, but _still_ —

It was stuck. 

“Maybe I don’t know you,” he said, “but we’re partners now, are we not? We should find a way to work together… so tell me something about you. Something personal.”

She blinked, tapping her manicured fingers on the table, a crack in her impenetrable armour.

“You remember that time Jeyne Poole called me a cold bitch?” she asked, her voice quiet. He didn’t know what he expected her to say, but it certainly wasn’t _that._ He did remember; it was kind of hard to forget when the other agent had practically spat it across the office floor.

“Yeah?”

It had been _years_ ago, and Jon had never thought much of it but clearly Sansa had, because she murmured—

“I locked myself in the toilet and cried for an hour.”

He paused, a flicker of surprise passing through him. He looked at her for a moment, soft in the morning sun and strangely vulnerable, and there was that ache in his chest again.

“My daddy hasn’t paid a thing for me since I turned eighteen and I broke up with Joffrey because I’d outgrown him,” she was sharing again, “because he was childish and cruel and I don’t want a partner like that. There’s more to me than meets the eye, Agent Snow.”

 _Yeah,_ he thought numbly, lifting his cup to his mouth and tasting rich coffee on his tongue.

He was starting to get that.


	2. Chapter 2

“You’re good at that, you know,” Jon said as they walked from the tennis courts back to the hotel.

Sansa arched a brow, turning the racket over in her hands.

“Yeah, I had lessons when I was younger.”

His mouth twitched under his beard. He hardly found that surprising, but it wasn’t what he was referring to.

“I don’t mean the tennis,” he said, “I mean being undercover, slipping into character. You had Baelish wrapped around your finger back there.”

She glanced at him curiously, probably surprised he was complimenting her. He was surprised too.

“Men are depressingly predictable. All I have to do is show him a little attention and he’s mine. He didn’t even bat an eye at me being married.”

“Yeah, he’s a proper arsehole,” he agreed, remembering the way his hand had lingered too low on the small of her back and his eyes had lingered on her ass in that tiny tennis skirt every time she bent to pick up the ball.

Jon’s had too, but he told himself that was fine—he was supposed to be her _husband_ after-all.

“We got some good information though,” she said as they continued walking, “it’ll be useful to take back.”

“ _You_ got some good information,” he chuckled, “Baelish barely looked at me. It was all you.”

“Careful, Agent Snow,” she laughed and he liked the sound; he thought she should laugh more, “you’ll give me a big head.”

“We wouldn’t want that,” he said, his tone lined with amusement.

As they walked, he could feel sweat beading on his neck, the heat mixing with exhaustion from the game. He suddenly remembered another topic they had covered, in between trying to coax out information about Baelish’s accomplices and creditors. 

_“No bouncing little ones?” Baelish had drawled during a break, handing them both bottles of water._

_Sansa had glanced uneasily to Jon and he thought on his feet._

_“Not yet,” he threw a cool smile and wrapped an arm around her waist, “I want her all to myself for now.”_

“You looked uncomfortable when Baelish mentioned kids,” he said, “you don’t want them?”

She stilled and rolled her bottom lip between her teeth.

“I want them very much,” she answered quietly, “more than anything. I just don’t know if it’s possible in our line of work.”

She looked so sad—and he felt for her. He was surprised how much. It was certainly more difficult—their job was dangerous and risky and any partner they had said goodbye at the door knowing there was a high possibility they wouldn’t come home. But Ned Stark was the boss and he had kids. She could make it work, if it was really what she wanted.

He thought about it himself, what _he_ wanted from this life. He rarely gave it any thought, preferred to live day to day, but he realised he’d quite like to be a father. He’d like to find his place in the world and have a family, somewhere he belonged. He’d like to give his son or daughter everything he never had.

The realisation rattled him. Everything about Sansa rattled him. Every move she made, every irritating word she uttered, every stubborn look she threw at him—it all had the power to shake him. 

She was suddenly speaking, her walls flying up around her.

“You’re probably just going to say I’d be a terrible mother,” she grumbled, “that I’d be too uptight or too unfeeling or they’d be brats like me.”

He was surprised by her outburst, his brows drawing into a frown.

He stopped her in her tracks with a gentle hand on her arm, curled around her elbow.

“No,” he said sincerely, “I wasn’t going to say that at all.”

Her lips parted, her eyes flickering to his hand.

When she looked at him again, that ice seemed to have melted.

“It’s been kind of fun being your wife, Snow,” she said.

The corner of his mouth tipped in agreement.

He knew what was coming, that it had to end tonight, and he tried to enjoy this closeness until it did.

 _The calm before the storm_ , he thought.  
  


* * *

  
They took Roose and Ramsay down with a wire.

Sansa’s movements were effortless as she teased out their crimes. Jon’s hand had twitched at his hip, ready to reach for the Walther PPK tucked into his waistband, but she hadn’t needed him. She used every trick she had and soon they were confessing without even realising it, their faces falling when they realised it was too late.

As the police closed in, Roose’s eyes had fallen shut in defeat, while Ramsay had lunged for her.

She drew her gun at the same time as Jon.

Her movements were lithe, deadly, and he stepped back with an arch of his brow. She was no damsel, no princess. She didn’t need him to save her. He had always respected her, but watching her bring those men down… it did something else to him.

Something hot stirred in the pit of his stomach.

It was still there by the time they confronted Baelish.

He wanted answers, wanted his money back, and the takedown was messier than the Boltons. 

When he realised who they were, a flash of their badges and guns, when he realised he was trapped… the brutality that made him famous reared its ugly head.

There was a struggle, smashed glass and overturned furniture in an expensive hotel room, and somehow Sansa ended up in Baelish’s hands. Time crawled to a standstill as he twisted her arm behind her back, his other hand holding a gun to her head.

Jon’s own gun was sleek and cool in his hand, his top lip curled as he pointed it at Baelish.

His ribs ached—he knew bruises would mottle the skin come morning—and when he blinked, he could feel sticky, wet blood running down his face.

He tried to focus.

“You’re going to let me go,” Baelish was sneering, twisting Sansa’s arm tighter until she winced, “or I’ll put a bullet in her pretty head. I can see you trying to work it out. Maybe you _are_ quick enough, maybe you are that good… but maybe not.”

Jon’s finger tightened on the trigger. He was right. He _was_ trying to work it out, trying to calculate if he was quick enough to shoot him before he could hurt her. It would be tight, he had to play it carefully, and Sansa’s eyes were fiery as she shot daggers at him.

“Agent Snow, _don’t,_ ” her voice was still clinical and clipped, even with a gun pointed to her head, “we need him alive.”

He could feel his teeth aching from where he clenched his jaw so tight and adrenaline coursed through his body. He couldn’t believe how calm she was, how unruffled, determined more with bringing him to justice than her own life.

They were at an impasse—and neither man was willing to stand down.

“Lower your weapon,” Baelish hissed again, “or will you let her die because you’re too proud to surrender?”

Sansa shook her head, her jaw set and her brows furrowed as she silently begged him not to do it. The broken clock ticked loudly in the corner as time seemed to slow. An entire minute went by before Jon’s arm started to lower.

He was going to put the gun down on the floor.

He was going to concede.

He was going to let him live—he _was—_ but then he saw Baelish’s finger twitch on the trigger and his gun flew back up. He didn’t hesitate as he fired three shots into him, Sansa recoiling in shock.

He didn’t even think about it. It was just instinct. She was in trouble so he fired and now Baelish’s body was convulsing on the floor. Blood bubbled behind his lips and burst out in a cough, splattering onto the plush hotel carpet.

He twitched twice more before he died.

Sansa stared at the body, wide eyes blinking.

When she looked at him, those eyes were slightly glassy and he watched the movement of her pale throat as she swallowed.

The air seemed to thin between them, burning heavy with the weight of everything left unsaid.

As she pushed past him, he tried to predict what she would say.

“You’re a fool,” she muttered.

It wasn’t that.  
  


* * *

  
They packed in silence that evening.

The boss was pleased, delighted with the Boltons both being in police custody and understanding of the fact that Baelish had to be taken out. He was especially understanding when he’d heard the danger his daughter had been in, thankful even, and he congratulated Jon on a job well done.

They would return to London as heroes, would probably both get promotions and their own fancy offices, yet Sansa was acting like they had failed.

There was a cold distance between them, a gulf even wider than before. It made him angry. He had sacrificed for her. He had killed for her. He had saved her life—and she was looking at him like he’d murdered a puppy.

He stopped her with a gentle hand on her arm when she tried to push past him.

“What’s wrong with you?” he asked quietly, the air thick and burning white hot.

She flinched out of his grasp, a storm brewing behind her eyes.

“Nothing.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

She rolled her eyes and gave an incredulous scoff, trying to push past him again and out of the hotel room.

His hand curled around the crook of her elbow as he tugged her back.

“Don’t walk away from me either.”

He saw her breath hitch, her tongue peeking out to wet her mouth, and his eyes were drawn there like a magnet.

“You made it personal,” she said eventually, her tone accusatory.

He blinked at her in disbelief, his hand still curled tight around her elbow.

“ _Personal_ …” he breathed, “Sansa, he had you and he was going to hurt you.”

Maybe she didn’t believe it, or maybe she just hated to be vulnerable, but she wrenched her arm away and took a step back from him. Inexplicably, his hands ached from the loss.

“And now he’s dead,” she bit out, “and dead men can’t talk.”

“You think he would’ve talked anyway?” he asked, anger flaring red hot under his skin, “he would’ve run and we would’ve had to go after him. And if we lost him, we’d have lost him for good. He had a _gun_ to your head. I had to adapt. I had to make the call.”

She blinked at him, her pale eyes flickering from his to the hand wrapped around her elbow and back again.

“Anything else?” she asked after a beat, her tone short and her expression unimpressed.

Something inside him snapped.

He took a step towards her, causing her to take one back. He kept going until she was forced backwards, stubbornly holding his gaze until she hit the bedroom wall. She stared him down, her eyes stormy.

He felt her everywhere. He was surrounded by her.

As if by gravity, his eyes fell to her mouth.

He felt dizzy, almost drunk with irritation and rage and _something else_ , and her eyes seemed to flicker between his own and his mouth.

Everything burned, everything pulsed hotter and brighter than before.

“God, you’re infuriating,” he muttered, his voice even and quiet.

She narrowed her eyes and he noticed her pupils dilate, blown to black. Her chest was rising and falling quicker, her breath hitched in her throat, and he finally understood this heat.

It was desire, attraction. Attraction that had been simmering between them since they arrived in Monte Carlo—and maybe even before. 

He watched a muscle in her jaw jump.

“As are you,” she whispered lowly, “Agent Snow.”

Maybe it was his name from her pretty lips, maybe it was the desire to make her say _Jon—_ but something flared inside him and then he was kissing her.

He didn’t know why he did it—and he didn’t know why she kissed him back.

Why she opened her mouth to him and surrendered with a whimper. Why she grabbed and clawed at his jacket, this stupid tailored suit he hated wearing, and fisted it in an attempt to bring him closer. Why she bit at his bottom lip and made him growl.

He didn’t think about how strange this was. How they were angry and confused and hurting a little. How she was his colleague— _partner_ —and his boss’ daughter.

She gasped his name— _Jon—_ against his lips and he was gone.

His hand flew to her thigh, grabbing it and hooking her leg around his hip. His other hand shot to her hair, tangling in the copper curls, as soft as he’d imagined. Her hands trembled slightly as they tugged him closer by his lapels and when he ran his tongue along her bottom lip, she opened her mouth.

His tongue touched hers, tentative sweeps that became more firm with every breathy gasp. He licked inside the hot cavern of her mouth, the little moan she released causing a shudder to trace down his spine. The kiss was messy and brutal and he tasted the sharp metallic tang of blood, a re-opened cut—his or hers, he wasn’t sure.

Everything moved faster then, desperation flowing from their fingertips, as he hooked his hand under her knee and hitched her thigh higher. She arched her back and tilted her hips, bringing his rapidly hardening cock in contact with her core. He could feel her heat, the soft lines of her, and he imagined sliding inside her, how hot and tight and slippery wet she’d be. She shifted, rubbing herself against the thick length throbbing in his trousers, and he groaned against her mouth.

“Off,” she panted into his mouth, tugging at his suit jacket until she pushed it off his shoulders, “get this off.”

He was too far gone to tease her, to smirk, for their usual heated back and forth. He was as desperate as she was, his own hands clawing at her dress. His fingers went to the zip at her back and when he couldn’t get it down quick enough, the fabric ripped under his impatient hands.

She gasped at the viciousness of it, the neediness, her cheeks blown to heat. He was surprised she didn’t tell him off, didn’t sniff how expensive it was. She didn’t seem to care, her eyes glazed over and hazy with lust.

The ruined dress pooled at her waist in a bunch of black satin. His mouth went to her neck as she tugged it down, stepping out of it and kicking it away. He peppered hot, open mouthed kisses down the length of her flushed skin, pausing to suck a bloom into her collarbone. She let out a breathy little moan and something possessive flared to life inside him at the thought of marking her perfect pale skin.

He itched, _ached_ , to hear her moan again, to mark her as his. He wanted her surrender, to win this dangerous game of push and pull between them.

Her hips rocked into his as he returned his kisses to her cheek and then her mouth. His lips slanted over hers, their tongues tangling, fighting to control something that had never been theirs to control. Her deft fingers unbuttoned his shirt and tugged it off his shoulders, then her hands were running over his chest.

She pulled back, her brow arching as her darkened eyes flitted over him.

“Fucking hell, you must work out all the time,” she breathed and his abs twitched under her cool touch, “you vain prick.”

A laugh rumbled from his chest, his mouth quirking into a cocky smile.

He didn’t feel self-conscious as her hands drifted over his scars. He was a fighter, a spy, his whole life shrouded in secrecy—but so was she. What were the chances of him finding a woman who could deal with what they had to deal with? Maybe this was meant to happen. Maybe this was why it worked, when it hadn’t with anyone else.

He broke away from her mouth to look at her, soft in her underwear and half bathed from the lamp. She was as proud and unashamed of her nakedness as he was, a force to be reckoned with, and desire churned in the pit of his stomach.

“I’m on the pill,” she breathed out suddenly, as direct and practical as ever, and he paused for a moment, “and I’m, you know, _clean_.”

He wasn’t worried about that; he knew she would be, as he was. They had to have a clean bill of health in their job and it had been months since Ygritte and Baratheon it seemed too.

Still—it made things very real, made _this_ very real, and maybe he never expected it to go that far.

But then she was kissing him again, working through the knots in his overactive brain, and he was putty in her hands.

“Me too,” he murmured about being clean and began to bite down her neck, the grit of his beard sliding over her throat. His nimble fingers unclasped her bra, pulling the straps down her arms and then she was topless and her tits were as perfect as the rest of her. He grunted into the hollow of her throat, one hand cupping a breast and feeling the weight of it in his hand. She moaned, arching her back, and his lips went to a dusky rose nipple.

He flicked it into hardness, swirling his tongue before he clasped it between his teeth. She rolled her hips, looking for friction, and her fingers tangled in his black curls. She kept him anchored to her breast, her breath escaping her in breathy gasps.

She was grabbing for him again, losing control on her famous, iron clad composure. He liked seeing her needy for him, so uncharacteristically ruffled, and he let go of her nipple. He continued trailing kisses down her sternum, her toned stomach, until he was on his knees.

“What are you doing?” she breathed.

He hooked his fingers in the waistband of her panties and slowly dragged them down her legs.

“What do you think I’m doing?” he asked dryly, watching her shudder as his breath brushed over the damp fabric between her thighs, “I’m going to taste your cunt.”

A tremor pulsed through her. He could see how wet she was, a patch on her panties, and he nearly groaned.

He _did_ groan when he finally got her naked and saw her glistening cunt for the first time.

She was fucking _stunning._

“I don’t—” she paused, the words lodging in her throat, “—the guys I’ve been with… they don’t really… do that.”

Jon arched a brow, thoroughly unimpressed, and circled her clit teasingly with one fingertip. She gave a sharp inhale, her hips undulating towards him, despite her weak protestation.

“You need to keep better company,” he muttered—before he spread her and gave her slit one long lick.

She whimpered, her head tipping back as he got to work. He felt wild, more wolf than man, as the sweet taste of her flooded his tongue. His fingers dug into her wet thighs, keeping them spread for him, as he focused on kissing her clit. He mouthed it for a moment, lathing it with his hot tongue, before he gave one, hard suck.

“Fuck,” she practically sobbed, one of her hands flying to his head. She kept him anchored there as she rocked against his mouth, using him for her pleasure.

At the back of his mind, he wondered at the strange turn of events. When he took the mission, he imagined it ending a multitude of ways. He imagined arresting Baelish, killing Baelish, even being killed himself. He imagined the explosive fights he and Sansa would have, how he’d probably come away refusing to work with her ever again.

Never in a million years had he imagined he would be on his knees in a fancy hotel room, eating her sweet cunt. 

She was shaking, her thighs trembling around his head. He pulled back for a moment to pop two fingers in his mouth before he slowly inserted them into her tight cunt. She shuddered at the sensation of being filled, her back arching against the wall, and he could feel her velvet walls gripping him tight. His cock twitched in his pants, so hard it was practically painful, as he imagined her wet channel pulsing around him as he fucked her.

“Oh fuck,” she was panting again, her stomach clenching as she approached the edge.

He pumped his fingers in and out of her, his mouth latching onto her clit. He could feel her soaking his beard, her juices running down to his chin, and he had to press the heel of his other hand into his crotch to try and relieve the ache. It didn’t work, his cock desperate to bury itself inside her, and he focused on his mission with newfound vigour.

He could feel her tightening around his fingers, her thighs shaking, and with one more lick, she shattered. He heard himself release a thick growl into her cunt as she came, his nose grinding against her hard clit. She was practically sobbing, her hips rolling as she chased her pleasure, and he lapped at her leisurely as she came back down to earth.

He didn’t stop until she had to push his head away, buzzing from oversensitivity.

He stood up, wincing slightly. He was hard as a rock, an obvious bulge straining against his trousers, and her cheeks flushed even brighter when her eyes were drawn to it.

“You’re really good at that,” she admitted breathlessly, even though it probably killed her to compliment him.

He gave a lopsided grin. He could still taste her on his lips, her scent lingering in his beard, and when she leaned in and kissed him, he was sure she could too. She released a little moan into his mouth, probably tasting herself tangy and tart on his tongue.

“I’ve never had any complaints,” he murmured cockily—but the words came back to bite him when she gave a sultry smile and dropped to her knees.

“Neither have I,” she drawled, and then she was unbuckling his belt, pulling his trousers and pants down, and wrapping her mouth around his cock.

He hissed through his teeth, his head tipping back as she began to suck him.

Her mouth was hot and wet as it slid across his thick length. He wrapped his hands in her auburn hair, careful to be gentle as he rocked into her mouth. Judging by what she’d just said about her past lovers’ selfish inclinations, and what a cunt he knew Joffrey Baratheon to be, he figured she might not have had the best experience with this.

Her pale eyes flickered up to him, pupils wide and blown, and he groaned, feeling his balls tighten. His eyes practically rolled back into his head when she relaxed her throat and took him all the way in. She barely gagged, able to take it, and her nails scratched lightly against his balls. When she pulled back to suck at the mushroomed head, the precum that seeped from the slit, he had to avert his eyes.

It _did_ something to him, seeing prim and proper Sansa Stark with her lips wrapped around his cock, and he didn’t want to come too soon, like a teenage boy being touched for the first time. He knew he would if she continued, that hot coil in the pit of his stomach, so he pulled her off with a wet plop. He dragged her to her feet and twisted them around, walking her backwards towards the bed.

He stopped just as the backs of her thighs hit the comforter. Her mouth was red and swollen, her hair messy, and something dark and possessive flared inside him at seeing her so wrecked.

“All this time…” he murmured, twisting a strand of red around his finger, slipping into madness, “…wound so tight… you were just begging to be fucked.”

He felt her shudder but she composed herself, throwing him a stubborn glare. This time, it turned him on rather than irritated him, and she narrowed her eyes.

“Fuck me then,” she demanded, taunted, “ _shut me up_.”

He gave a little growl, capturing her mouth again in a fierce kiss, but he wasn’t done playing with her.

“How do you want it?”

Her eyelids flickered, heavy with want.

“From behind,” she insisted, completely at ease with her own body and desires, “I want you to fuck me from behind.”

His mouth twitched, his thumb coming up to swipe over her bottom lip.

“Bend over, then.”

She obeyed silently, slowly turning around and bending over. His cock twitched, jutting straight and proud from a thatch of black hair, at the sight of her perfect behind. He ran a hand over one of the globes, felt the smooth skin, and smirked at the desperate way she rolled her hips.

“Patience, dirty girl,” he cooed, his other hand gripping his cock to line it up with her soaking entrance, “is this what you want?”

She moaned as the fat head of his cock kissed her clit.

“Yes,” she begged, “please—fuck me.”

He pushed inside her, his thick cock stretching her out.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he grunted against the snug fit, her velvet walls clenching around him. She groaned, spreading her legs wider and slowly pushing back onto him. He gave her a moment to adjust, his hands settling on her hips, and then pulled out.

His cock slipped against her wet slit before he pushed back in to the hilt.

“Is this how you like it?” he asked roughly.

“Yes,” she sobbed, “more— _please._ ”

“Please what?”

“ _God_ ,” she groaned in frustration, but this game was as natural as breathing to them, and it was difficult to break the habits of a lifetime.

“Not quite.”

She practically snarled, her fingers bunching the sheets either side of her into fists.

“Come on, baby,” he demanded, the pet name surprising even him, and he gave one of her ass cheeks a gentle smack. His handprint bloomed red across her perfect skin, “say it. Say my name.”

He wanted to hear it. He wanted to know he wasn’t alone in this, this strange new thing between them, even if it was obvious how much she wanted him. Obvious from the way she writhed and moaned in pleasure, from the way she had come for him, from the impossibly wet, lewd sounds her body made as he fucked her.

“Jon, Jon, _Jon_ ,” she chanted, the name ripped from her throat—again and again and again.

He growled, his fingers digging into her hips as he started to fuck her hard and fast. She pushed back onto his cock, matching his rhythm, and seemed to like it the most when he slapped her ass. He’d never taken perfect Sansa Stark to be someone who enjoyed rough sex, but she begged him for harder, faster, _more._ She tipped her head back, a sea of red spilling over her back, and he gathered it in a ponytail, giving it a gentle tug.

She moaned, her broken pants joining his heavy breaths and the lewd slapping sounds of flesh on flesh. She was so hot around his cock, so tight and wet, he had to grit his teeth. When he felt her start to tremble, when he knew she was close, he slipped a hand around her throat and pulled her to him.

“That’s it,” he purred, his other hand snaking in-front of her to rub at her swollen clit, “come for me, _Agent Stark_. Come on my cock.”

She obeyed with a broken cry, her body breaking apart in his arms and her orgasm rippling along his length. 

His balls tightened as his cock throbbed deep inside of her. His fingers were soaked with her release, his limbs taut with the strength of his restraint, and he couldn’t hold it back anymore. As she milked his length, he growled thickly into her throat and then bit down onto her shoulder as he came.

He felt his come fill her, his balls emptying until it overflowed and she whimpered when his half-hard cock slipped out. Some seed seeped onto her thighs, glistening silver slick in the darkness.

As they collapsed onto the bed, his lungs on fire, he heard her laugh.

It might have been the first _real_ laugh he’d ever heard from her—relaxed and carefree and light—and it made his chest feel too tight.

“Excellent work, Agent Snow.”  
  


* * *

  
“Tell me, Agent Stark,” he was murmuring some time later when she was still in his bed and his fingers were gliding over her swollen, well-fucked cunt, “do you get this wet for every man you hate?”

She shuddered as he played with her clit, pulsing warm under his fingers. She stretched out her naked body, the covers long gone.

She was all fire, creamy skin and soft curves and long legs and how had he not seen how completely _perfect_ she was before?

He’d had her three times and still, his cock twitched in interest.

Something else shifted in his chest, a rolling sensation that plummeted to his stomach.

He was fucked.

He’d never be able to look at her the same again. He’d never be able to wrap this up in something else.

She was looking at him too _,_ her blue eyes strangely soft.

“I never hated you.”

His hand stilled, drifting back to his side.

She was continuing before he could speak, likely wanting to just get it out. She hated being vulnerable as much as he did.

“I thought you were arrogant and annoying,” she bit her bottom lip to conceal her smirk, “and you pushed my buttons, but I never _hated_ you. You came from nothing and I could tell you were resentful I didn’t, that you thought I was just a vapid daddy’s girl who never worked for anything. I’ve seen the women you date.”

She said it with a little smile and eye roll and it made him think.

She wasn’t brash and unapologetically rude like Ygritte; she carefully calculated every step and was always diplomatic. She didn’t like to go hiking or shoot arrows in her spare time like Val; she liked to read and paint and spend time with her family. She didn’t dye her hair crazy colours or wear faded combat boots like Wylla; she wore fancy dresses and heels and smelled like expensive perfume. 

He supposed she was nothing like the women he dated… but then in a way, she _was._

She was brave and fierce and obstinately strong-willed.

Really, _those_ were the things he had always been drawn to in a woman.

Ygritte could be arrogant and overconfident, but there was no way she could even _hold_ a gun. Val loved the outdoors, but she probably couldn’t spend days on end in the wilderness, tracking a target. Wylla liked to wax poetic about the ‘system’, but she never actually did anything to change it; to put the bad guys down.

Judging by his dating history, he _shouldn’t_ have been surprised he was drawn to Sansa—but then he reminded himself, they weren’t dating.

 _Did he want them to be?_ he thought with a strange stirring sensation. He certainly didn’t want to go back to how things were before.

“For the record, I never hated you either,” he said quietly, “I _did_ think you were a spoilt brat, there’s no point pretending any different,” she laughed so he knew she wasn’t offended, “but I guess we were both wrong. We didn’t see each other properly.”

She swallowed, her eyes suddenly serious, and then she touched her hand to his cheek.

“I see you now,” she whispered.  
  


* * *

  
Two days later, they were standing outside Ned Stark’s office, buzzing from a congratulations and a job well done.

They walked in silence down the hallway, receiving a few pats on the back or jealous glares from the other agents.

Eventually, she stopped, turning to him with an unreadable expression.

“I never thanked you,” she said suddenly, her gaze sincere and a touch vulnerable, “for what you did with Baelish. Recounting it in there, I just—I should have thanked you.”

He stared at her, surprised, before he gave a little shrug.

“It was nothing.”

He pretended he would have reacted that way for anyone—really, he wasn’t so sure.

“Still,” she murmured, “thank you, Jon.”

He liked hearing her say his name. He wanted to hear it again, under different circumstances. He wanted to steal it from her mouth as he kissed her. He wanted to hear her chant it as she tugged his hair and he moved inside her.

He’d thought maybe they’d leave what happened behind in Monte Carlo—but his passion for her hadn’t waned.

“You’re welcome,” he muttered, before he added, “Sansa.”

She smiled, maybe liking the way her name sounded from his lips too.

It wasn’t awkward like it might have been before. They knew each other now, had seen each other, inside and out.

“We make a really good team, don’t you think?” she said after a beat, “Daddy will probably assign us more cases together.”

He winced, really wishing she wouldn’t call Ned that. The thought of his boss finding out _exactly_ how he’d touched his little girl in that hotel room, how he’d fucked her, had him instinctively covering his balls.

“I look forward to it,” he replied—because he _did_.

The answer seemed to please her because she gave another coy smile, beginning to walk backwards.

She held his gaze, something sharp and electric between them, as she practically purred—

“Until next time, Agent Snow.”

He watched her walk away, something warm flitting through his chest.

“Until next time, Agent Stark.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I listened to "Nobody does it better" and "Licence to Kill" on repeat writing this -- big moods.
> 
> Thanks for reading <3 I left it open ended incase I wanna dip back in this world someday (knowing me, very likely!) hope you enjoyed :)


End file.
